A dufus stunt-double has been employed for this role.
Well almost. Let me explain. And to do so I have to go back to Saturday in order to share with you my little tale of woe...and physical exhaustion.
The day started well enough. After I hacked away at the roots that had sprouted around me on the couch Saturday morning I got up, went out, and cut the lawn. Mrs. D was good enough to go do the grocery shopping. I usually do the groceries Fridays, but last Friday I had a golf game. I know. Tough choice, right? Sorry. This story actually goes back to last Friday, then, doesn't it.
Now you have to understand our house sits on an acre of land. So when you cut the lawn, even using a lawn tractor, it's quite a job. The neighbourhood is gorgeous, many of the homes being built in the 70s and now, of course, have luscious hedges and mature trees. That was one of the selling features for us when we bought our house. No one wants to be surrounded by a bunch of immature trees. I mean, really.
The trade off for living in such beauty and solitude is we depend on a well for our water and a septic tank for our, er, um, waste. Of course every couple of years the septic tank needs emptying. (It's amazing how much, um, ah, "waste" two people can produce in such a short period of time. Man we are healthy, my friends!)
So there I am Saturday morning, fresh as a daisy, not, after an hour or so of riding the big red fella (not a euphemism) and I think "Hell that septic tank guy's coming Tuesday. I better dig that bloody hole to access the lid." In retrospect I seem to have had an unhealthy amount of enthusiasm. This from a guy whose idea of exercise is the walk from the couch to the refrigerator. And on a good day back to the couch.
Now I pride myself on being smart. Not smart educational so much - although I have one - as devising little things that help me out around the house. Since we get the septic tank emptied every two years, the grass grows back on the patch of dirt erasing the precise location where the lid is. Well, I placed a big stone in the grass at the corner of the sport where the hole has to be dug.
So I find the stone and start digging...and digging...and digging. I stop for a rest and a glass of water...twice. And then I resume my digging...and digging...and digging. Now I didn't have to dig very deep because the top of the tank is only a foot or so underground. I find the tank okay. But damned if I can find the lid. When I do find an edge of it I realize I've spent almost an hour digging in the wrong direction. So instead of digging right of that damn stone, I should have been digging left. You know I had an uneasy feeling when I couldn't find the lid. Turns out I dug a frickin' hole 3 times bigger than I needed.
Mrs. D, back from the grocery store says to me, "Why did it take you so long dufus?" Despite being near collapsing from exhaustion and panting more than a bloodhound in heat - nearest to death as I've ever been - I reply politely, "It helps if you dig the right fuckin' hole!"
Ah, well. These things happen. As I age, more and more so it seems.
So I guess I've made my grave.
Now I have to lie in it.
Left: lid. Centre: unnecessary hole. Right: Dirt to cover me with.